


all that I'm left with is you

by shellfishDimes



Category: Block B, Winner (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Existential Crisis, Fame, Fans, First Kiss, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Idols, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Invasion of Privacy, Late Night Conversations, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Rap Music, Romantic Friendship, Secret Crush, Sexuality Crisis, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 13:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: Minho moves away, a little, as Jiho's entire world crashes down around his ears. He blinks at Jiho, like he wants to ask if he's okay, but instead he says, "That's what I mean."Jiho thinks of ghosts, and thresholds, and the word he repeats to himself every time he looks at Minho with a different, but always familiar sort of fondness.Careful.He thinks of the past twelve years, the past couple of months. Of earlier this evening, Kyung's text,What have you done?And he thinks of Seolhyun, her voice on the radio, and wishes he hadn't, because it still aches. It's dull, but it's there.He thought he'd always been cautious — he'd always beencareful,for god's sake, with things like who he showed his heart to, who he let have his affection, and then Song Minho undoes all of that hard work with one blue rose tattoo and a single soft touch of his lips.





	all that I'm left with is you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madanach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/gifts), [shookyfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shookyfan/gifts).



> final entry in my unofficial 'various people loving song minho' series. title is from [measure the globe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xREgc5a0HrE) by astronautalis. some of the lyrics are pertinent, depends on you which ones, I guess. I wanted this to be shorter, but uhhh, I love mino and zico, and I wanted to write about public/idol versus private life, and being a rapper, and music, but also tattoos and kissing. takes place in early june 2018. hope you enjoy.

If Song Minho's heart is a house, Nam Taehyun is the ghost in the attic. 

Jiho could take the metaphor further, stick his hand in and rearrange its parts until it's divorced enough from the people it's about, good enough to put in a song, maybe a ballad for the next Block B album, maybe something that would really suit Taeil's voice — but no. Some heartbreaks aren't his to tell.

If Song Minho's heart is a house, Woo Jiho is always stood with one foot over the threshold, halfway in, halfway out. He doesn't know which direction he's heading in. 

They meet in that place that does the jajangmyeon they both like. It's just off the beaten path enough that they can eat without their managers having to sit at the next table over and politely, but very firmly turn people away every time they ask for a selfie or an autograph. Jiho is nearly ready to get back in the lion's den, and Minho has just come off the tail end of promotions for Winner's newest comeback.

It's been too long since they last did this — since March, if Jiho is counting — but it's always been too long, so neither of them says it. 

"I'm announcing a solo tour soon," Jiho says. "August. Two dates in Seoul, and then I'm hitting Japan." He takes his chopsticks. "And then Europe, probably, and the rest of the world."

"Hey, that's awesome, hyung," says Minho, stirring his food.

" _Okey Dokey_ will be on the setlist, obviously," Jiho says over the sound of Minho slurping his noodles. He waits for a beat, and Minho looks up at him, nodding. "I think it'd be really cool if you could come along to the Seoul dates," Jiho continues. "Get on that stage with me."

Minho grins. His cheeks are thinner than they used to be. So are Jiho's. His hair is longer. Minho's is highlighter yellow, fried at the ends. Jiho remembers the state his was in when he dyed it for the MAMAs last year. He couldn't even run his hand through it with how dry it was. His hair is softer now, honey blonde and permed. It's probably getting too long, but he still likes it, and his comeback isn't close enough for his stylists to suggest a haircut.

"Hyung, I think you can work that stage perfectly on your own," Minho says, gathering up more noodles on his chopsticks.

Jiho chases his food down with a generous gulp of beer. "That's a no, then?" He wipes his mouth with a napkin, attempting to read Minho's expression.

Minho is trying to look like he isn't saying no, and failing. "I'll have to ask our manager hyung to see if I can," he says. He pushes his food around his bowl, not really eating.

Jiho is too sober to start thinking selfishly, but fuck, even though it's been years, even though they're both _happy,_ he still thinks about the what-ifs.

"I'm sure his answer will be different than all the dozens of times you asked before," he says, doing his best to not sound bitter.

They've gone through these motions so many times, and YG always say no. They always have plans for Mino. He's heard people saying that Winner are the new, younger Big Bang. He's also heard people saying nastier things. How Mino is greedy, and how he wants to take Kwon Jiyong's place now that he's in the military. If it's like that, Jiho is certain that it's not Minho's decision in the slightest. Yang Hyunsuk won't have access to his main cash cow for two years, so he's looking for replacements. 

Jiho drinks his beer, dousing his anger. Minho always says how YG saved him from the absolute trainwreck that was BoM, and from falling back into obscurity after they were disbanded, but. But.

"Hey, but," Minho starts, and at this, he leans across the table, putting his hand on Jiho's arm. He lowers his head, eyes darting around the restaurant to make sure that nobody is eavesdropping. "I'm doing a song with _Seungri hyung_ on his new solo album," Minho whispers, unable to contain his grin. "Top secret," he says in English, tapping his nose.

His hand is warm on Jiho's arm, covering his hibiscus tattoo. Sparks fizzle in the pit of Jiho's stomach.

Jiho pulls away with a snort, getting up to pay the bill. "Don't blab, idiot," he says, giving Minho's cheek a light slap as he passes him. Minho is still grinning, giving Jiho that _look,_ like he's the only person in the restaurant. In the world. Jiho looks away and tries to make it to the cash register before he can do anything embarrassing. He worries at his lip with his teeth to keep his face neutral.

When he comes back, Minho still hasn't gotten up from his seat. He's looking at something on his phone. Jiho claps a hand on his shoulder. "Ready to bounce?" When Minho doesn't immediately respond, Jiho squeezes his shoulder and leans down to see what he's looking at. "Minho-yah?"

Minho is looking at a post on Nam Taehyun's Instagram. He has a new tattoo. None of them follow him anymore, but that hardly matters.

Taehyun looms over everything. Even though it's been years, even though they're both _happy,_ Minho still thinks about the what-ifs.

The ghost in the attic makes the whole house creak. 

Minho kills the app and stands up, Jiho's hand dropping from his shoulder. He doesn't meet Jiho's eyes when he says, "Yeah, let's go."

They're quiet in the taxi to the club. Minho puts his earphones in and sits low in his seat, staring out at the lights moving past the window. Jiho sinks down as far as his seatbelt will allow. He spreads his legs until their knees are touching, and takes his phone out to text Kyung, _ugh._

Almost immediately, Kyung texts back, _What have you done?_

Jiho stares at his phone, and at the back of the driver's head, already regretting sending the text. Kyung will want to talk, because Kyung _always_ wants to talk, because he's _a good friend,_ and Jiho sometimes just wants to send cryptic texts complaining about nothing in particular and leave it at that.

Kyung texts, _Just don't punch him in the face, we can't afford a YG lawsuit,_ making Jiho laugh at his phone.

"Hmm?" Minho knocks his knee against Jiho's, pulling one earphone out. "What's funny?"

Jiho waves his phone noncommittally, locking it in the process so Minho can't see his and Kyung's conversation. "Kyung says hi," he says. "He also said that if we get into a fight, not to punch you in the face because we can't afford a lawsuit from YG."

Minho chuckles. "I don't know, I think I'd look pretty good with a broken nose," he says, running his fingers over the bridge of his nose like he can already picture it. "Like a real gangsta."

JIho slaps his hand away from his nose. "You can't be an idol with a broken nose," he says. "You're already pushing it with that face." Minho laughs, his eyes crinkling, his whole face lighting up, bright like a sunrise, and Jiho thinks, _careful._

The club they end up in is in Itaewon. It's the kind of place that's close enough to the beaten path that they can't avoid being recognised, but it's underground enough that they'll still get treated with some amount of respect instead of getting hassled just because they're celebrities. Dongwook recommended the place to Jiho, and once they're past the bouncers and down the stairs, it's immediately obvious to Jiho why this would be a Dongwook kind of place. 

It's... lowkey. Okay, it literally looks like the basement of a former factory that someone gave a deep clean, picked the least bedbug-infested furniture from the side of the road, repainted it and stapled some old bits and pieces over the most stubborn stains.

 _It has character,_ Jiho can hear the thought in his head in Dongwook's voice. The place has so much character you can smell it in the air. It smells like cigarettes, although Jiho can't see anyone smoking anywhere. Like spilled, stale beer, and like heavily air conditioned, recycled air.

"This place looks _awesome,_ " Minho says, and he's already making his way to the bar, Jiho on his heels.

Heads turn. Jiho sees a guy whisper something to his friend as they pass. The friend stares straight at Jiho, eyes wide, before he's clipped on the back of the head by the first guy and quickly looks away. Jiho brushes past a guy with thick-rimmed glasses trying to chat up a clearly disinterested girl. He has to put his hand on the girl's shoulder to squeeze past her, and when he does, she looks up at him with mouth so agape he can see the gum she's chewing.

The queue at the bar is three people deep, and Jiho almost loses Minho in the press of bodies. He grabs onto the back of his shirt to make him slow his roll, and Minho turns to give him a look over his shoulder, throwing him a grin to assure Jiho he won't get swept away by the crowd.

They wait. There's no point in talking, or doing anything except standing there and trying to catch the eye of someone working behind the bar, because the music is too loud to hear anything else. They're playing a Balming Tiger track, way too dark and brooding for a place like this. It's the type of beat that makes Jiho anxious for absolutely no reason. He feels like he can finally take a breath when it changes to something else: a brainless, middle-of-the-road H1ghr Music track. Jiho lets his eyes wander as they wait, across the crowd, the tables and the booths, and further down into the smoky gloom where he can make out the outlines of a stage. 

There's a tug on his wrist. Minho. He leans over and shouts into Jiho's ear, "Hyung, they're gonna have someone on stage later, let's stick around!"

Jiho nods. He puts his hand on Minho's shoulder before he can move away. "Watch who you talk to," he shouts in his ear. "Don't make any promises." He squeezes his shoulder, and Minho gives him the thumbs up.

After two more songs have played, they finally make it to the bar. Jiho leans his entire weight on the wood, relieved that he's no longer being jostled by the crowd. He tries to keep himself within arm's reach of Minho, even though everyone around them keeps pushing. He rests his elbow on the bar, keeping his hand up. He waves his fingers, hoping the motion will be picked up by a bartender, but it looks like it'll be a while yet.

The crowd moves again, and before he can grab for Minho, someone pushes between them.

She's almost at Jiho's eye level in heels, leopard print mini skirt hugging her ass, tiny black crop top doing wonderful things for the shape of her tits. A silver chain rests in her cleavage.

"Hey," she says, and Jiho can't hear her, but he can see her lips move as she says it. She's drinking a rum and coke, almost empty, the ice all but melted. She very obviously looks at the arm he has resting on the bar. Checking out his tattoos. She smiles and throws her hair back so that Jiho has a better view of her cleavage. He appreciates it. He _really_ does.

Jiho shakes his head. "I'm just trying to get a drink," he tells her. He bends down to her ear to say it, and when he does, she puts a hand on his arm, small and warm. Her nails are painted black. 

"Oppa, I'm thirsty too," she says, shaking her glass at him. God, Jiho really wants her number. Or to just get her alone somewhere and see how fast he can get his hands underneath that mini skirt.

And they'd probably have a great time, too, and the second he was out of her sight she'd tell all her friends about how she'd let Zico finger her in a club in Itaewon.

Or she might not be like that at all. She could be a completely normal girl who doesn't fuck idols just so she can brag about it, but Jiho can't risk it. There's no way in hell she hasn't immediately recognised him.

"Not tonight, gorgeous," he says, moving his arm out of her grip and giving her his most apologetic smile, "Sorry."

She shrugs, turning away from him and treating him to a perfect view of her ass. Jiho sighs. Being responsible and doing the right thing doesn't always feel as great as he hopes it will.

Something pokes his shoulder. He looks to find that it's a bottle of soju, with Minho at the other end. He's reaching over the hot girl between them like he hasn't even noticed she's there. He pokes Jiho with the bottle again until Jiho takes it, and motions to Minho to follow him.

They find a spot against the wall, far enough from both the stage and the bar that it's not too busy, and that those who pass them by don't stare at them too openly. Minho's neon yellow hair sticks out like a sore thumb, and there must be UV lights somewhere, because Jiho swears that it glows. It makes Minho's skin look even darker, and Jiho has to admit that he looks ridiculously handsome.

He's lost the chubby cheeks and the unrefined beauty he's had before — he's an idol through and through now, and Jiho isn't… jealous, not exactly. His own face is too commonplace to ever be called an idol's face, no matter what he does with it. But. Under the lights, with the music so intense he can feel the bass in the wall, nursing a bottle of soju, Song Minho looks like the most beautiful man Jiho has ever laid his eyes on. It seems like too big of a thought to have this early in the evening.

Minho notices him looking, and he raises his bottle so they can clink them together. He smiles at him, and Jiho thinks, _careful._

The music gets quieter, and then stops altogether as the lights pointed at the stage switch on. There's a guy standing there already, bucket hat pulled low, wearing clothes that are two sizes too big for him. He yanks the mic from the stand and holds onto it like a lifeline.

The beat starts, and the guy starts rapping.

Jiho has listened to hundreds of mixtapes and Soundcloud rappers. He's been to underground gigs like these more times than he can count, both performing and in the audience. He was a judge on _Show Me The Money_ for two seasons. He's heard a _lot_ of bad rap. He's had to listen to a lot of underwhelming beats.

This is neither. This isn't anything they'd let an idol rapper do, not even on a mixtape. MNet wouldn't even air this on _Show Me The Money,_ because they'd say that the lyrics are too controversial, the beat too dark and weird, the risk and the diss too big to be worth it.

Jiho _loves_ it. 

The kid spits like he's trying to get all the venom out in one breath. It's a familiar enough topic — about living in the gutter and looking at the stars, about the crookedness of entertainment companies, the hypocrisy of mainstream and idol rap, the greed of the underground. His flow needs improvement, and his voice cracks more than once, but the crowd doesn't seem to care. Everyone is into it, even the middle-aged guys in a corner booth who looked just about ready to fall asleep before the kid started rapping. 

Minho jabs him in the arm with an elbow. "He's good!" He has his hand in the air, moving it along to the beat, looking like he's having the time of his life. Jiho finds himself egging the kid on when he drops a particularly good rhyme, and soon he has his arm around Minho's shoulders, leaning into him, yelling along with him.

When the kid's set is done, he leaves the stage to applause and whoops. Jiho cups a hand to his mouth and howls his appreciation. The kid might not be a genius rapper, yet, but he has a way of spitting that might just get him there in a couple of years. And it's impossible not to ride the positive energy of the crowd.

"Wow," Minho says, arm around Jiho's waist, chest heaving, coming down from the high of the set, "that was… wow!" 

"He's pretty good," Jiho agrees. He can't stop his grin. His heart is pounding, a little. He feels drunk, not just off the soju.

"He's like…" Minho thinks for a second, trying to find a comparison. "If C Jamm hyung got a little meaner," he offers.

Jiho laughs. "And rapped a little less smoothly," he says. "He's alright, but if he continues with this style, he won't get any further than the underground." He takes another swig of his soju, trying to finish it before it gets warm. His throat feels too dry. "Korea doesn't want to hear this kind of sound." The music is quiet enough that they can almost have a normal conversation. "It doesn't sell."

Minho tsks and shakes his head. "Ah, hyung, why do you have to be so…"

"Realistic?" Jiho looks sideways at Minho, who rolls his eyes. "Nobody's gonna care about you pouring your heart and soul out on the stage if it doesn't have a good, commercial sound." He takes a long pull on his soju, wondering when the fuck did he start sounding like this much of a jaded asshole. Maybe the kid on stage reminded him too much of himself back when he used to be underground. Or of the kind of rapper he'd wanted to be, at least, but never felt like he had the nerve to. On one side, there was the Woo Jiho who wanted to be an artist and wouldn't compromise his vision for the sake of popularity. And on the other, he just wanted people to enjoy the songs he made. He worked very hard, every day, to reconcile those two sides and make them work together rather than at odds with each other. Sometimes one won over the other, though, and it wasn't always the right one. 

"I still think it's cool," Minho says. "People are making some awesome shit out here. I hope..." He pauses. "If he finds a label, I hope they let him keep that sound." He takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. "There's gotta be variety. If everyone sounds the same, the scene will die."

He's looking at Jiho expectantly, eyes asking a question he'd never say out loud. It's always the same question. Jiho knows almost literally everyone in the rap business, couldn't he do something to get this kid noticed?

Off the top of his head, Jiho could name at least three labels who'd be interested. AOMG, for one. Jaebeom always likes them young and malleable. Just Music, too, because Minho is right — the kid does have something similar to C Jamm about his sound, something Swings would definitely enjoy.

But Jiho's not here for that. If Jay or Swings were looking for new artists, they'd send scouts, or they'd come themselves. His stomach knots with anger at himself. He just wants to have one night where he can switch off and stop thinking about work, but his own brain won't let him.

He tries not to have any of this show on his face. "You're right. I hope he gets somewhere." He pats Minho's cheek. "I need to piss," he says. "Don't miss me too much." He leaves Minho in the crowd just as the MC is introducing the next rapper on stage.

Even in the men's bathroom, he can still feel the bass of the music. The walls are covered in graffiti and stickers, and the air is stained with the chemical smell of urinal cakes. Out of habit, Jiho checks the stalls to find them empty, and then takes an urinal. 

As he pisses, Jiho thinks about the girl at the bar and how good her tits looked in that top, and Minho's body pressed against him as he bounced to the beat, laughing. He has to brace his hand on the wall, realising that the last bottle of soju totally fucked his balance. He swallows spit. He should have eaten more.

For a brief moment, the volume of the music from the club increases as someone opens the bathroom door. Footsteps, and then someone takes the urinal next to his. Jiho finishes, zips himself up, and heads to the sinks to wash his hands.

He meets the eyes of his reflection in the mirror. He's still not used to seeing himself with wavy, flyaway blonde hair. He shakes his head to make it sit right. The effect isn't great, because he can already feel his scalp getting sweaty. Jiho wishes he was like a dog and could sweat through his tongue instead. 

He moves to the side to give the other guy room to wash his hands, too. Jiho puts a wet hand on the back of his neck, massaging his muscles. The water drips down the back of his shirt. The summer has been too hot already, and it's only June. 

"Zico-ssi?" The guy is looking at him, drying his hands on his jeans. A club like this doesn't have paper towels in the bathrooms as a top priority.

Jiho takes a better look at him, and realises it's the kid they'd watched on stage just a couple of minutes ago. The bucket hat is gone, but he's still practically swimming in his oversized clothes. Jiho can see that he's got a weirdly pretty face for someone who writes lyrics like that.

"Sorry," the kid says, and _bows,_ and wow, that's a new one, to have someone bowing at him in a smelly men's bathroom. "I'm Hyunsoo, you heard my set." He grins, and yeah, he's definitely too attractive for this kind of scene. 

"I did," Jiho says. "That's some pretty good flow. You write your own beats?" He knows he's walking himself into a conversation he won't be able to get out of quickly, but he's too curious.

Hyunsoo nods. "When I can. I collaborate with a friend sometimes, but mostly it's me. He's too busy with school to finetune beats with me until early in the morning." He smiles. "But you gotta give up sleep to rise to the surface, right?" It's not the first time someone's quoted Jiho's own stuff at him to try and get in his good books. It's not the last time it'll make him embarrassed for them.

Jiho gives what he hopes is a noncommittal shrug, a polite smile. "Hey, you gotta hustle if you wanna make it, sure," he says. "Good luck, man." He makes to step towards the door, signalling Hyunsoo that he should consider the conversation done.

But it's never that easy. Hyunsoo takes a step forward, and he has to tilt his chin up to meet Jiho's eyes. "I have more tracks if you want to hear them," he says, a sentence Jiho has heard a hundred different variations of. "I think you'd like 'em."

"Sure, I'll look you up on Soundcloud," Jiho says. Firing a warning shot.

It doesn't work.

"No, I mean, I could send you some stuff I'm working on. Nobody's heard it before, and I think it could be a gamechanger," Hyunsoo says. "It's not like the watered down crowd-pleasers that everyone else is trying to make." The more he talks, the more confident his voice sounds, and Jiho kind of admires that, in a weird way. Everyone else who's tried to approach him like this mostly looks like they're about to shit themselves, or bow so low they'll dislocate their spine, or both. "If you give me your Katalk—"

"Listen," Jiho interrupts him, "I like your swag, I like your rap, but that's not why I'm here. Good luck, honestly, but I really can't help you. I don't do that kind of stuff."

The kid tilts his head. His hair is almost long enough to fall in his eyes. "Why are you here, then?"

Jiho shakes his head. Shrugs. "I'm just out with a friend, man."

"Song Mino?" Hyunsoo says it through a sneer. Of course he does. Someone like him, a short kid with a face too pretty to be taken seriously, of _course_ he'd hate everything he thinks Minho represents. "What's he even doing here?" He frowns. "He sticks out."

Jiho laughs. "I can't take a piss without getting recognised, and you think _he_ sticks out?"

The frown slips off Hyunsoo's face. He shrugs, smiling apologetically. There's something else in that smile, too, and Jiho thinks he can recognise what it is until Hyunsoo says, "Yeah, but not like you, hyung," and then he realises he's got it totally wrong.

Hyunsoo reaches out, and his hand is on Jiho's elbow. He slides it down, tracing a finger over Jiho's tattoos, the inside of his forearm.

The touch is feather light, but it has Jiho's insides turning to lead.

Time turns liquid. Hyunsoo is so completely in his personal space now, Jiho can smell the sweat drying on top of his cologne. The moment doesn't feel real.

"Hey—" Jiho tries, but he can't hear his own words over the blood rushing in his ears.

Anyone could walk in on them right now and see him like this. Frozen to the spot as another guy is clearly, unmistakably trying to kiss him in the men's bathroom. It could end up on Dispatch. It would be all over the internet in seconds, and his career would never be the same. Hell, if he even had a career after something like this.

His numb panic must register on his face, because Hyunsoo's eyes dart for a second to the door, and then back to Jiho. "The stalls are free," he says. Keeping eye contact, he lets his tongue poke out for a moment, wetting his lips.

They're not bad lips. They'd look good sucking Jiho off. Hyunsoo is already looking up at him, so it's not difficult for Jiho's mind to jump right to the image of Hyunsoo on his knees, and wow, Jiho hates himself. 

He takes a step back, shaking Hyunsoo off. He feels lightheaded, like he's going to faint, and he doesn't know if it's the alcohol or the panic. "Whatever the fuck it is that you're suggesting," he says, putting as much venom in his voice as he can, "it's not happening." He doesn't have to try as hard to make his face look pissed off. "You're not gonna get famous like that. I'm considering breaking your fucking nose," he spits, and his blood runs hotter with how much he means it, "just so everyone can see what a stupid kid you are as soon as you walk back out there."

"What?" Hyunsoo says, and he's trying to make himself look big and brave, but Jiho has a good few inches on him. "You think your dick is too good for my mouth, that it?"

Jiho grabs the front of his shirt, cheap cotton bunching in his fist. "Get," he snarls, shoving Hyunsoo towards the door, "the fuck. _Out._ "

Hyunsoo stumbles, and grabs the door handle for support. The door swings open. Jiho's head pounds with the beat, and Hyunsoo staggers out without another word.

When the door swings shut after him, Jiho makes a beeline for one of the stalls, and he's vomiting in the toilet bowl before his knees even hit the floor.

Cold sweat pours from his hair and he can feel his whole body shaking. He clutches the dirty porcelain with one hand, trying to push the hair out of his face with the other. When his stomach is empty, he just breathes, eyes squeezed shut, spit dripping from his lips. He spits, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

A swell of music again that makes his stomach jump. The door to the bathroom opens.

"Jiho hyung?" Minho's voice, sounding wary. "Are you in here?"

 _Fuck,_ Jiho thinks. "Yeah," he says, hitting the flush and getting to his feet. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, still feeling shaky. 

When Jiho steps out of the stall, the corners of his eyes still stinging with vomit-induced tears, Minho immediately puts his hand on his shoulder. He pulls Jiho closer so he can get a better look at him. "Fuck, hyung, are you okay?" His eyes are jumping across Jiho's face, taking everything in. "You look rough."

Jiho tries to wave it off. "I just need to wash my mouth." He goes to the sink and opens the faucet, trying to get as much of his face under the spray as he can. He lets the water pour over his tongue. Minho gently places his hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing in small, soothing circles.

The taste of bile gradually disappears from Jiho's mouth. He splashes water on his face. It gets his fringe wet, but he doesn't care.

"Okay?" Minho asks. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Minho is chewing on his lower lip, distraught.

"Better," Jiho says. The walls are too close. "Can we get out of here? I'm kinda done with this place."

"Of course," Minho nods. "I'll call us a taxi."

Outside, Jiho sits on the curb as they wait for the taxi. Minho's app says it's going to be longer than usual, because both traffic and demand are high. Seoul never sleeps. There's drunk girls in mini skirts and high heels a couple of feet away from them, hugging and singing an old Big Bang song. They're slurring the syllables and barely getting half of the words right. Down the street, a couple are having a loud argument about the guy spending all their rent money on clothes.

Minho eases himself down on the curb next to Jiho with a sigh. He knocks their knees together to get Jiho's attention. "How's it going?" he asks, leaning forward and trying to look into Jiho's face. And then, quieter, "Do you still feel like throwing up?"

Jiho takes a deep breath. Exhaust fumes, smog, and cigarette smoke. Itaewon. He swallows. "No," he says. "I'm good. The air helps." He rubs the back of his neck. "Too much to drink, I guess," he lies, hating himself.

"Ah, yeah, you gotta take care of yourself, hyung," Minho nods, the picture of wisdom. "Your alcohol tolerance gets worse when you're old, I heard."

Jiho snorts. "I'm only six months older than you, asshole."

"Sometimes that's all it takes, hyung," Minho says, and his grin is wide and stupid, and beautiful. Jiho's heart hurts. Minho looks down at his phone to check how close the taxi is, momentarily relieving Jiho of the fluttering in his stomach. "Where are we going, anyway?" Minho asks. "There's this club nearby that Jiwon and me used to hit up regularly, it's a pretty good time."

"Yeah, I think I'm done with clubbing for tonight, Minho-yah," Jiho says. "But we could—"

A loud gasp interrupts him. "Did he say Mino? Is that _Mino?!_ " By the sound of it, it's one of the drunk girls who were singing Big Bang.

"From Winner? Where?" Minho winces at his phone, a rigid smile on his face. "No way!"

"Is that Zico next to him?" Jiho can almost hear all the heads turning. "I thought he was in Japan!"

"Wow, his hair!"

Jiho leans into Minho's side until their shoulders touch. "How close is that taxi?" he says out of the corner of his mouth.

"Three minutes," Minho whispers back.

Jiho bumps his shoulder against Minho's. "That's nothing. Just be wonderful." Minho chuckles, quietly enough that Jiho is sure he's the only person in the world meant to hear it. He refuses to let his cheeks heat up. 

"Mino oppa!" one of the girls calls. Jiho watches Minho's face change to his fansign smile. Wide, gorgeous, just for the person he's facing, and for everyone else with cameras. It's the most realistic fake smile Jiho has ever seen, including all the times he'd practiced it in front of the mirror. "Can we get a picture?" She already has her phone out. Her friends are half hiding behind her, all of them craning their necks so they can have a better look. She looks to be about Seolhyun's age.

"I'm sorry, we're out privately," Minho says. "No photos, okay?" Jiho is ducking his head already, moving his hand in a casual motion that still hides his face, he hopes. If anyone is taking photos — and they definitely are, he doesn't even have to check to know that several people are either taking photos or filming, because not everyone is polite enough to ask first. It won't stop him from getting recognised, but at least it'll hide how pale his face must still look. He regrets not immediately putting on the mask he always carries in his pocket in case of situations just like these. Suddenly three minutes feels like a very long time.

"Okay," the girl says, face falling. She exaggerates it for effect, probably trying to look cute. She's quiet for a second while she thinks of something else to say, and then her face lights up as she says, "We— we really loved Winner's comeback, oppa, _Everyday_ is such a good song!"

"Thank you, we worked hard on it," Minho says graciously.

"Are you and Zico oppa working on something together?" another one of them asks. Her hair is a short, violet bob, and she has a tattoo of a caged bird above her heart, which Jiho notices because she's wearing the kind of top where you can't help but notice. She sees him looking, and meets his eyes. "Zico oppa, are you going to do a comeback, too?"

Jiho recalls long nights in Hyoseob's studio, bouncing around ideas about Hyoseob's new album. Clowning in the recording booth together while Jiho recorded his verse for the title song and Hyoseob wouldn't stop making faces at him, trying to make him laugh and mess up just so they could hang out together longer. Trying to get Jieun on the phone so they could talk about a song he wants to do with her for his own comeback. Always getting redirected through managers, saying that IU is busy, but she loves his work, and she'll definitely get back to him as soon as she can. All the finished and half finished songs on his portable hard drive, and on the studio computer, and the nights he'd dragged a grumpy and tired Kyung along with him, coaxing him with promises of sushi in exchange for feedback on his new tracks.

And how he can't even hint at any of that to her, because both his and Hyoseob's PR plans are still being laid out, and he can't have anything slipping through before it's time, because they'll take it and spread it everywhere, and ruin all the hard work Jiho and dozens of others have put into this.

He lowers his hand from his face, admitting defeat. They've photographed him looking worse. He smiles at her, slow and mysterious, the kind of smile that makes girls scream at fansigns. He can see her start to blush. "What's your name?"

"Soobin," she says.

"You know I don't like spoilers, Soobin-ah." He gives her the kind of smile that makes fansite owners sprain their fingers from how fast they click their camera shutters. She giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand prettily. Minho gets to his feet next to him, and Jiho follows. "You girls have a good night, okay?"

"We will, oppa! You too!"

"Mino oppa, I love you!" one of them yells, and Minho flashes their group a blinding smile, throwing finger hearts with one hand as their taxi pulls up to the curb. They yell at that, a shrill wave of sound that carries down the street. 

"Did you see that? He was looking at me!"

"You're delusional, he was _definitely_ looking at me!"

Jiho piles into the taxi after a grinning Minho, barely getting his long legs to fit behind the driver seat. He shuts the car door behind himself, drowning out the excited chatter of the girls.

"They were cute," says Minho, looking past Jiho and through the window as the taxi drives off. 

"They were drunk," Jiho says. 

"And? So am I." Mino smiles. "They were polite and didn't try to mob us." He pats Jiho's thigh in what's meant to be a comforting gesture. "It could have gone worse."

Jiho thinks back on Hyunsoo in the bathroom, the drag of his finger down Jiho's forearm. He digs his fingers into the bone of his elbow. "Yeah. It could have." He sighs. "That's the last time I take Meco's recommendation on anything."

"Really?" Minho looks confused. "Sure, some people approached me while you were in the bathroom, but it was just to tell me they liked my new solo track." He pauses. "Hyung, did something happen?"

Jiho looks towards the driver. He's checking the GPS. The radio is on, playing the new AOA song at a low volume. Seolhyun's voice sounds good. The driver puts both his hands back on the wheel. Their eyes meet when he looks in the rearview mirror, and Jiho quickly looks away. He can't have this conversation here.

"I'll tell you when—" he starts, and then realises that he has no idea what's next. "Where are we even going?"

Minho looks sheepish. "You said you didn't feel like clubbing, so I thought we could go for a drink at our dorm," he says. "It's close by, and we can just hang out."

Jiho thinks back on the unwashed dishes piling up in his sink and the unwashed clothes piling up on his floor. The scattered debris of his life landing wherever it's thrown, every surface covered in loose coins, receipts, discarded jewellery, sunglasses, half-empty cologne bottles and phone chargers. He smiles at Minho. "That sounds a lot better than my place," he says.

Minho's smile echoes his. "Jhonny's gonna be so happy to see you."

It's close to three in the morning when the taxi drops them outside Minho's building. They take the lift up, and Minho opens the door as quietly as he can, because even if it is a Saturday — Sunday, at this point — he's conscious enough of the fact that Jinwoo doesn't always keep the same hours as he does.

All their stealth is proven to be useless when they're met by Jhonny in the hall, who yowls happily at the sight of them, rubbing against Minho's calves.

"Shh, baby, you'll wake up hyung," Minho coos. He picks her up, all her fluff and weight, and buries his face in her fur. "Hey. Did you miss me?" he whispers.

Jiho laughs, kicking off his shoes. "I can hear her purring from over here."

"Look, princess, it's Jiho hyung." Minho says, turning so that Jhonny is facing Jiho. She looks like a grumpy, sleepy lion cub, and Jiho adores her. "Isn't he handsome?"

Jiho's heart soars. He grins and scratches Jhonny under her chin. She leans her head into his touch, purring loudly. "Not as pretty as she is. Hello, sweetheart."

"She wants a kiss," Minho says. Jiho raises his eyebrows at him. Minho raises his right back. "You know she likes it when you kiss her head." He adjusts his grip on her, and Jhonny flops in his arms. 

Jiho laughs, and bends down to kiss the soft fur on top of Jhonny's head. She smells nice, like cat and clean linen and Minho. She makes a sound of protest when he moves away, and Minho says, "Okay, okay, just be nice," and lets her back down on the floor. She winds herself around and around Jiho's ankles, and when she realises that won't make him give her food, she skulks away, pushing open the door to Minho's room and disappearing behind it.

"You want a drink?" Minho asks. "We have beers in the fridge." His eyes widen. "Or!" He claps a hand over his mouth, gasping. "We have ice cream!"

Ice cream at 3 am sounds like a great idea to Jiho, and like it'd be much kinder to his stomach than the beer. Plus, with the heatwave, it's still almost unbearably hot and sticky, despite the hour. "Ice cream would be fucking _amazing,_ " he says, and Minho nods delightedly. 

He leads Jiho to the kitchen, stepping around cat toys and avoiding creaky floorboards. The blinds are drawn, and the apartment is so quiet that the click of the kitchen lightswitch and the hum of the refrigerator door opening sound ten times louder. The ice cream is chocolate chip cookie dough. The good, expensive kind. Minho takes the whole thing out, not bothering with bowls. Bowls aren't a 3 am kind of thing. 

"Oh," Minho says, looking in the cutlery drawer. He takes out a solitary spoon. "That's our last clean one," he says, shoulders rising in an apologetic shrug. "I didn't have time to do the dishes."

Jiho fiddles with a ring he found on the counter, putting it on and twisting it around his finger, taking it off again and rolling it between his fingertips, feeling the smooth surface of the stone. "I don't mind, we can share," he says. "Is this your ring?" 

"Yeah. Keep it," Minho says.

"Really?" Minho hums his assent. Jiho slips it back on his finger. "Thanks."

Minho nods appreciatively. "It looks good. You should wear rings more." 

Jiho snorts. "I wear rings."

"Yeah, but." Minho pops a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. "That one looks especially good."

"You're only saying that because it's yours," Jiho says. Minho hums thoughtfully, the sound dissolving into a laugh as he tries to walk past Jiho to get out of the kitchen, and Jiho pokes him in the hip. "Be quiet, Minho-yah," Jiho chides, "your hyung is trying to sleep."

"Idiot," Minho whispers through a grin, making the word sound more fond than it should have any right to. Jiho manages to take both the ice cream and the spoon away from him before Minho slips out of arm's reach. He stumbles down the hallway, laughing and motioning for Jiho to follow. Jiho nearly slips on a plastic mouse and breaks his neck, and instead of showing concern, Minho just _laughs._

Minho's room is messy, but in a way that's still comfortable. His favourite tracksuit is slung over a chair. Books perch precariously on the windowsill, their spines facing the glass. Tubes of paint, brushes, and ceramic clay all sit in one corner of his desk. There's an open sketchpad on the nightstand, the page full of detailed pen drawings of bald, wrinkly monsters and lush flowers. Jhonny lies in the very centre of the bed, curled in on herself like a cinnamon bun, asleep. She doesn't even stir when they walk in.

Jiho eats the ice cream, letting it melt on his tongue and chewing on the cookie dough bits. It's really good. So good that for a moment it lets him forget he's barely stopped sweating all night. Summer in Seoul is relentless this year. 

"I hate this heat," Minho groans, and he's grabbing the hem of his own shirt, "give me a second, I just have to change." He pulls his shirt up and over his head, and Jiho stares, mouth full of ice cream.

There's a rose on the right side of Minho's chest, blooming blue. Jiho swallows the ice cream, feeling it freeze its way down his throat and all the way into his stomach. 

"Is that a new tattoo?"

Minho pauses just as he's about to pull the shirt off, caught off guard. He looks up at Jiho. "Yeah, it's new," he says. 

"Can I have a look?" Jiho asks. Minho nods, arms still in the shirt. 

Neither of them expect that Jiho will touch it. Jiho surprises himself, but the night has been strange. He traces the tips of the petals with his fingers. The blue is vivid in some places — in others, it's lighter, and the colour of Minho's skin shows through, making the rose appear light enough for Jiho to believe that if he blows on it, the petals will float away.

His fingers are cold and wet from holding the ice cream container. Minho's skin is hot. He's perfectly still, like he isn't breathing at all. The moment doesn't feel real. Time sticks like dirt underneath Jiho's fingernails. 

Minho's arms go slack. The shirt slips down his forearms. "It was Taehyun's birthday last month," he says. Jiho thinks he can feel Minho's heart beat under his fingers, but they're on the wrong side of his chest. "I wanted to write him a birthday message. I kept writing it, and deleting it, over and over again." Minho bunches the shirt up into a ball. "I didn't send it, but I still have the last version saved on my phone."

The ghost in the attic makes the whole house shake. 

"I might try again next year," says Minho. "Maybe. I don't know."

"It's okay," Jiho says, because he has no idea what else to say. Minho's ring feels too tight on his finger. Their eyes meet, and Minho looks like he just pulled himself back into the moment from being miles away. 

Minho breathes a laugh, but it doesn't sound happy. "Seungyoon says that there are some things you don't get over."

Jiho is back in that waiting room, years ago, when they first saw Minho with his new band, when it first sank in that he truly wasn't ever going to be with them. Jihoon turning to the wall so the cameras wouldn't catch his face, because he couldn't stop crying. Kyung, trying to make a joke to cheer everyone up, and how flat it fell because all Jiho had wanted to do was walk across the room and hug Minho, but he couldn't do that anymore. He remembers how tight his throat was, suffocating with how much he was trying not to start sobbing while they were filming.

Seven years later, and they're here. 

Jiho runs his fingers along Minho's skin, under his collarbone, just shy of the blue rose. He can feel Minho breathing now, no longer unnaturally still. 

"Seungyoon is a smart kid," he says softly. 

Minho smiles fondly. "He is," he agrees. "He said that sometimes the strongest thing you can do is learn how to carry that weight with you." His fingers close around Jiho's hand. Jiho is still staring at his face, trying to figure out what his expression means.

Minho takes the ice cream from him. The spoon shifts when he does it, scraping against the cardboard. He sets it down on the shelf, squeezed between an empty bottle of cider and a framed picture of the Winner four in fake prison uniforms, Minho peeking over Seunghoon's head and winking at the camera.

Minho places his hand over Jiho's, over his ring on Jiho's finger, over the blue rose. Jiho can feel his own heartbeat swell.

"You mean Taehyun?" he asks. He knew it was heartbreak, but really nobody outside of the five of them knew exactly why Nam Taehyun had left. There were things you could say to your manager, to your CEO, to the press, that were just close enough to the truth to be believable, but far enough from it that they would hurt just enough to recover from, at least in the public eye. 

Seungyoon was right. Sometimes you just didn't stop feeling pain, but you had to learn to live with it. 

Minho winces, squeezing his eyes, wrinkling his nose. "A… little." His expression smooths out, like the sun peeking out as the rain is about to end, vivid colours reflected in raindrops. "But…" And he doesn't finish the sentence, he just leans closer, quick and smooth, and kisses Jiho on the lips, his mouth barely open.

Minho moves away, a little, as Jiho's entire world crashes down around his ears. He blinks at Jiho, like he wants to ask if he's okay, but instead he says, "That's what I mean."

Jiho thinks of ghosts, and thresholds, and the word he repeats to himself every time he looks at Minho with a different, but always familiar sort of fondness. _Careful._

He thinks of the past twelve years, the past couple of months. Of earlier this evening, Minho furtively checking Nam Taehyun's Instagram, and then Kyung's text, _What have you done?_

He thinks of every kiss he'd had with his members, on the cheek, or the back of the neck, or the lips, not a single one of them serious, all of them forgotten almost immediately after the moment had passed, snow in the springtime sun. 

And he thinks of Seolhyun, her voice on the radio, and wishes he hadn't, because it still aches. It's dull, but it's there, and damn Kang Seungyoon for always being so fucking smart. 

It hadn't even been a real kiss. They'd just touched lips for shorter than a breath, but it was enough for Jiho to start feeling like the rug had been pulled out from under him, mentally and emotionally. He thought he'd always been cautious — he'd always been _careful,_ for god's sake, with things like who he showed his heart to, who he let have his affection, and then Song Minho undoes all of that hard work with one blue rose tattoo and a single soft touch of his lips.

"Hyung?" Minho says. 

Jiho hates himself. He does, for at least five different reasons that he doesn't want to name, but that he'll undoubtedly tell Kyung about one evening, three months from now, when they get drunk together and nobody can hear them except the empty bottles of soju and the four walls of Jiho's apartment.

He might hate himself, but he doesn't hate Minho, who looks like his anxiety is growing tenfold with every second that Jiho just stands there having an existential crisis.

He closes his eyes and bows his head, and he presses his lips to Minho's. Minho makes a noise that kind of sounds like a very soft _huh,_ and he leans in, tangling their fingers together. Jiho honestly can't remember the last time he held someone's hand like that.

Minho tastes like ice cream. Their noses bump together, and their lips keep sliding against each other wrong. The angle is weird, and Jiho feels like he should be trying to make it better, but he's so focused on quelling the fluttering in his stomach and the laughter that threatens to spill from his mouth.

He doesn't feel careful anymore. He feels happy. And maybe it's the sugar rush from the ice cream, but maybe, probably it's the shape of Minho's lips against his own.

Minho must notice him trying not to laugh, because he laughs too, pulling away just enough to get his breath back. His laugh is tinged with panic, coloured with relief and framed with love. It squeezes around Jiho's heart, that laugh.

"What," Minho says, and even that sounds like a laugh. "Is this okay?"

Jiho is already thinking ahead, to the dozens of ways this could go wrong, as far down the road as another seven years, or as soon as tomorrow. "Aren't you scared?" he asks. 

Minho's smile is soft when he says, "Why? It's just you."

Jiho tries not to smile right back, he really does, but it's too catching, the way it spreads across Minho's face. The only way he can hide it is by kissing Minho again. So he does. And Minho might be brave, but Jiho still thinks it's a little scary, how easy this comes. Minho's hand on the nape of his neck, tilting his head down just a little. Jiho's hand on Minho's hip, pulling just a little on his shirt, holding him just that tiny bit closer.

"I could get used to this," he says when their lips separate again, when he has to catch his breath.

"Ah, really?" Minho asks. He doesn't seem to be able to stop grinning, and Jiho can't look at it for too long. "I wish I'd done this sooner, then."

Jiho wants to ask him why he didn't, but he already knows all the possible answers to that.

Because of Nam Taehyun. Because Minho was trying so hard to earn his place in the industry. They all were. They _still_ are. Jiho has days, very bad days when he wakes up and thinks that it's all a prank, that there must have been some kind of mistake. Days when he's almost immobilised with the feeling that he's not working hard enough, he's just managed to fool everyone into thinking that his supposed talent is big enough to deserve everything he has.

And because with things like these, there is always the risk of not just getting rejected, but being forever labelled someone everyone should stay away from. Called something nasty and disgusting — something Jiho used to think was a snappy, clever insult because all the American rappers he idolised used it, until he got his head out of his ass and grew the fuck up, at least a little.

And there is always the risk of it getting out, somehow, at any point. Secrets were weapons, and it didn't take a lot at all for anyone to pull the trigger. He'd seen people's careers run into the ground, destroyed overnight over things far smaller than this. 

Minho cups Jiho's face in his hands so he can pull him in and kiss him again, and then he's draping his arms around Jiho's neck, keeping their bodies close. 

"Hey," Minho says, moving away just enough so he can whisper it, but not more.

Of course Jiho is in love with him. He has been for years. It's so easy to fall in love with Song Minho. With his bright smiles, and the way you feel like the most important person in the world when he looks at you. And his dorky sense of humour, and how he's so bad at not letting every single emotion show on his face.

Jiho likes to think he's different, that he can school his expression into imitating any emotion he wants, whenever he wants, without showing what he's really feeling. It's a good skill for anyone to have, he thinks, but especially useful if you're an idol. Except when he tries too hard, and just looks pissed off. 

He feels tired, like he'd slept in a weird position and now every bone in his body hurts. There's anxiety percolating right under his skin, and if he focuses on it too hard, it'll boil over, so he lets his mind slide away from it. He keeps thinking about the way the voice of that girl outside the club pitched higher when she recognised him, when she said his name. Hyunsoo's fingers on his skin, and this. Minho's arms around his neck, and all of this, and the fact his stomach is twisting in knots when it shouldn't be. 

Minho has known him too long not to be able to read him. He says, "Hyung." He reaches for Jiho's hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses the heel of his palm, and when his eyes meet Jiho's, some of that bubbling, twisting, rising panic subsides, at least for the moment. "Jiho," Minho says, and it sounds so much like love that Jiho has to look absolutely anywhere but in his eyes, "what were you going to tell me in the taxi?"

"Fuck," Jiho says through his teeth, to himself more than anything. He sits down heavily on the edge of Minho's bed, leaning forward until he's hunched over. Jhonny wakes up with a soft cat sound, halfway between an indignant meow and a purr. "That kid whose set we liked, he approached me when I went to the bathroom."

The bed vibrates for a couple of seconds as Jhonny stretches out her full length, digging her claws into Minho's duvet. She jumps to the floor to curl up on a pair of Minho's jeans that have been tossed next to his nightstand. 

Minho sits down next to Jiho, his hands in his lap, listening. "What did he want?"

Jiho presses his lips together. Lets himself have a second. "He," he tries, and he can almost taste the bile in the back of his throat again. Hyunsoo, so close to him he could almost taste his breath, blinking and imagining how good he'd look like on his knees, hating himself.

Jiho rubs at his face with his hand. "He offered to suck my dick if I listened to his music."

"Fuck," Minho says, earnestly.

Jiho doesn't have to explain, he doesn't _have to,_ because he knows that Minho gets it. If he was a nobody, it wouldn't matter nearly as much. But everyone knows Zico, and everyone is chomping at the bit to find his softest spots. It's always been like this, people wanting what he's worked himself to the bone for. Sometimes, when he has bad days, he thinks he'd trade it all for just twenty-four hours of being able to walk down a busy street without a disguise. 

He leans his forearms on his knees, staring at the floor. Trying to put the whole thing into words in his head first. Minho reaches for his hand, and Jiho takes it, not even thinking about it. Minho twines their fingers together.

"I really wanted to break his nose," Jiho says, and he feels Minho's fingers twitch. "But I didn't. I wanna say it's because I felt sorry for him, but that's not it." He talks carefully, letting each syllable down slowly off his tongue. "I knew that if I threw the first punch, it'd be in the news the next morning, and then he'd spill about propositioning me, and." He groans. Secrets were weapons. He wasn't about to give anyone any ammunition. 

"You know," Minho starts, cautious. "I'm glad we're here." He squeezes Jiho's hand. Glad that they only have the four walls of Minho's room listening, and Jhonny lulling herself to sleep on Minho's clothes, and nobody else. "I'm glad you're with me." With him, and not anywhere else.

Jiho raises his head, meeting Minho's eyes. They're kind. "Can I sleep over?"

"Of course." Minho doesn't even hesitate. He blinks, and then his smile comes easy, light. "Would you let me kiss you again?"

Instead of answering, Jiho brings his free hand to the nape of Minho's neck, to bring their faces close together. They kiss until Minho no longer tastes like ice cream, and then some more, until Jiho's lips feel swollen and Minho's fingers are under his shirt, against the skin of his stomach, warm.

Outside, it's dawn.

  


* * *

  


Jiho wakes up with his face pressed into Minho's shoulder and Minho's fingers playing with his hair. When he shifts, his foot bumps against something heavy and warm on the duvet. Jhonny, still asleep.

"Good morning," Minho says, and his voice has that rough, early morning quality to it that Jiho didn't think he'd ever get to hear. His hair is a mess. He's gorgeous. 

Jiho hums, tracing the lines of Minho's new tattoo like he's drawing them. A rose over a rose over a rose. "It is."

Minho laughs at that. "Cute," he says. "Hey, you don't snore anymore."

"And you don't toss around like you're sleeping on hot coals anymore," Jiho says, and he thinks, _seven years._ He's still wearing Minho's ring. The stone is grass green.

"Maybe because being next to you calms me down." Minho doesn't keep a straight face, to give them both the chance to take it less seriously in the time it takes him to laugh.

Jiho snorts. "Maybe." Minho scoots closer to kiss him, just a gentle peck before Jiho says, "Okay, okay, I still do have awful breath in the morning, don't."

"Your voice sounds so sexy in the morning, though," Minho whines, putting on an air of annoyance that sounds so fake that Jiho has to cackle. 

"Just go piss or something," Jiho says, shoving gently at his chest, "I don't want you to see me lying here with hearts in my eyes."

"Fine," Minho concedes. "I'll brush my teeth and taste all minty and then you'll have to kiss me."

When the bedroom door closes behind Minho, with Jhonny on his heels, Jiho reaches for his phone to check his messages. It's only ten in the morning. He can allow himself another hour of being lazy before he has to get going.

He realises he still hasn't replied to Kyung's text from last night. He sends, _it's complicated._

It takes less than fifteen seconds for Kyung to reply with, _Cliché. What's the real story?_

Jiho stares at the message, thinking. Another message from Kyung pops up while he's trying to figure out what to write. _If you fucked someone new, you have to tell me._ Another one. _We promised._ And then, _Is she an idol?_

Jiho's fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to start typing, but still hesitant. Kyung texts again. _I have to be at mass in an hour, Jiho, so this better be the most exciting thing I've heard all month._ Kyung sends a sticker of an angry bear, and Jiho rolls his eyes at his phone. _I need something to tide me over,_ Kyung writes.

Jiho is about to type out an answer when the bedroom door opens again. "That was fast," he says, setting his phone down to look towards the door and straight at Kim Jinwoo, still in his pyjamas.

"Oh, hello, Jiho-yah," Jinwoo says in that mellifluous, soft voice of his. It throws oil on the fire of Jiho's panic.

Jinwoo is very violently trying not to react to the reality of seeing Jiho lying shirtless in Minho's bed. "I'm— hmm." He's trying to make himself not blush, like he has any physical control over that. Jiho can sympathise. "I heard Minho in the bathroom, I was just going to take my charger back. He borrowed it the other day, and, well— Anyway."

Jiho smiles, and seeing Jinwoo trying his best to take all of this in his stride and not make a big deal out of it makes his panic diffuse, if a little. "Good morning, hyung," he says. "I hope we didn't wake you last night."

Jinwoo shakes his head. "No, I didn't even know you were here, oh—" He cuts himself off as two hairless cats pad from behind his legs and run into the room. They jump on Minho's bed almost one right after the other. "Sorry about them."

The pale one yowls at Jiho's face, once, before jumping back down on the floor. The one with the black patches curls up on his knees and immediately starts licking its asshole. "He'll leave as soon as he's done cleaning himself," Jinwoo assures him. "Do you want some coffee?" 

Jiho throws his head back and groans. "I would love some coffee, hyung." 

"Okay," Jinwoo throws him a pleased grin, the tension dissipating like it was never there. "I'll make a pot for everyone."

He doesn't shut the door all the way when he goes, probably so that the cat can leave, and that's why Jiho hears him talking with Minho in the hall. At first it's unintelligible, and Jiho doesn't mean to eavesdrop at all, but the middle of the bed is always the most comfortable part, and if moving there gets him a little closer to the door, that's almost a complete coincidence.

"Why didn't you tell me _Woo Jiho_ was in your bed!" Jinwoo says, and it's very loud for someone trying to whisper. "I could have— I don't know— brushed my hair! At least!"

Minho is trying to shush him, considerably better at keeping his voice down. "It's _okay,_ hyung, it's just Jiho," he says.

"Song Minho, you could have _texted_ me," Jinwoo says, too indignant to control his volume.

"We were kinda in the middle of something," Minho says, and Jiho can _hear_ him smiling. There's a noise that sounds like Jinwoo swatting at Minho with his hands, and Minho laughs his breathy, wheezy laugh, covering his mouth with his hand from the sound of it.

Jiho falls back on the pillows, grinning at the ceiling. He allows himself a moment of complete silence.

Only a moment, though, because the next second, Minho is back, and he throws his full weight on the bed. The springs shriek, and the cat that had been washing itself on Jiho's knees jumps away as if electrocuted, its spine arched. It runs out of the room so fast that its claws scratch across the floor.

Minho rolls over, his hair in his eyes, a grin on his face, and throws a leg over Jiho's middle until he's straddling him. He bends down. Their noses are almost touching. Jiho is trying not to go cross-eyed looking at his face. Minho taps his fingers on Jiho's chest like he's tapping piano keys. Quick and light. "Hey," he says.

Jiho cackles. "Idiot," he says. Minho's breath smells like toothpaste. He brushes Jiho's hair from his face. Jiho realises that he doesn't want to cut his hair so short that Minho can't run his fingers through it. He'll have to find a way to explain _that_ to his stylists.

Minho closes his eyes. Jiho says, "No, Minho-yah, I haven't—" but Minho kisses him anyway, and he tastes like mint, and he keeps kissing him until Jiho feels boneless and light and like he doesn't have to worry so much about what his mouth tastes like in the morning, because Minho doesn't seem to care.

His phone buzzes while Minho has his arms pinned to the bed, kissing down his neck. When he grabs Minho's ass and squeezes, and Minho laughs into his mouth, it buzzes again, several times. He ignores it.

When Minho bites at the juncture of his neck, moving his hips in Jiho's lap, the muscles of his thigh moving under Jiho's palm, Jiho thinks, _I could get used to this._

It's dangerously approaching noon when they join Jinwoo in the dining room, Jiho in one of Minho's t-shirts and his second favourite tracksuit, hair still wet from the shower. Jinwoo makes them all kimchi fried rice with his mum's homemade kimchi, and strong, sweet black coffee, and it's perfect. They eat out of the same pan, with spoons Jinwoo had hastily washed from the pile of dishes in the sink. Jhonny begs Minho for food, raising herself up on her hind legs and digging her claws into his thigh. He coos at her. He sits next to Jiho, and every time their arms brush, Jiho feels a little more reckless.

While Minho and Jinwoo argue about whose turn is it to brave the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, Jiho checks his phone. Jhonny rubs against his shins, meowing. 

There's a message from Jieun. _Zico oppa,_ she writes, _let's do that collaboration! What did you have in mind?_

Jiho smiles, scratching Jhonny behind the ears. She bumps her head against his hand. "Princess," he coos, "we'll find you some food."

There's five new messages from Kyung. _It's not Minho is it,_ he says in the first one. And then, _Jiho. You have to tell me. I'll die. I'll die and you'll have to pay for my funeral._

If Song Minho's heart is a house, Woo Jiho has stepped over the threshold. He's taken off his shoes, his hat and his jacket, but he keeps his love safely in his pocket, fingers closed around it in a loose fist.

"Hyung," Minho calls, "come help out with the dishes!" He's trying to slap Jinwoo with a pair of dry rubber gloves, and Jinwoo is laughing, both trying to dodge and take the gloves from Minho at the same time. "Don't be lazy!" Minho meets Jiho's eyes and grins so wide his eyes crinkle.

Jiho writes Jieun, _how about a song about soulmates?_

**Author's Note:**

> how about that [soulmate mv](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vl1kO9hObpA), huh?
> 
> hey thanks for reading! if you like, hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/fanxytelevision)


End file.
